their excrements new Poets bred.  But now thy Muse inraged from her urne Like Ghosts of Murdred bodyes doth returne To accuse the Murderers, to right the Stage, And undeceive the long abused Age, Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy Wit Gives not more Gold then they give drosse to it:  Who not content like fellons to purloyne, Adde Treason to it, and debase thy Coyne. 
  But whither am I strayd?  I need not raise
Trophies to thee from other Mens dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser Ruines built, Nor needs thy juster title the foule guilt Of Easterne Kings, who to secure their Raigne, Must have their Brothers, Sonnes, and Kindred slaine.  Then was wits Empire at the fatall height, When labouring and sinking with its weight, From thence a thousand lesser Poets sprong Like petty Princes from the fall of Rome.  When_ JOHNSON, SHAKESPEARE, and thy selfe did sit, And sway’d in the Triumvirate of wit—­ Yet what from JOHNSONS oyle and sweat did flow, Or what more easie nature did bestow On SHAKESPEARES gentler Muse, in thee full growne Their Graces both appeare, yet so, that none Can say here Nature ends, and Art begins But mixt like th’Elemcnts, and borne like twins, So interweav’d, so like, so much the same, None this meere Nature, that meere Art can name: 
  ’Twas this the Ancients meant, Nature and Skill
Are the two topps of their Pernassus Hill.

J. DENHAM.

Upon Mr. John Fletcher’s Playes.

Fletcher, to thee, wee doe not only owe
All these good Playes, but those of others too: 
Thy wit repeated, does support the Stage,
Credits the last and entertaines this age. 
No Worthies form’d by any Muse but thine
Could purchase Robes to make themselves so fine: 
What brave Commander is not proud to see
Thy brave Melantius in his Gallantry,
Our greatest Ladyes love to see their scorne
Out done by Thine, in what themselves have worne: 
Th’impatient Widow ere the yeare be done
Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her Gowne: 
I never yet the Tragick straine assay’d
Deterr’d by that inimitable Maid: 
And when I venture at the Comick stile
Thy Scornfull Lady seemes to mock my toile: 
Thus has thy Muse, at once, improv’d and marr’d
Our Sport in Playes, by rendring it too hard. 
So when a sort of lusty Shepheards throw
The barre by turns, and none the rest outgoe
So farre, but that the best are measuring casts,
Their emulation and their pastime lasts;
But if some Brawny yeoman, of the guard
Step in and tosse the Axeltree a yard
Or more beyond the farthest Marke, the rest
Despairing stand, their sport is at the best.

EDW.  WALLER.

To FLETCHER Reviv’d.